


Parisian Winter

by TijuanaTango



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Suicide, Written during the hiatus a looooong time ago!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TijuanaTango/pseuds/TijuanaTango
Summary: This is a tiny ficlet I wrote a long time ago during the hiatus after Sherlock jumped off of the building.  I never posted it but I’m cleaning out my old files and thought I’d upload all of this fan fiction that nobody ever read!It’s based off of a tumblr post that has since been lost to the sands of time (I have the link but it doesn’t work anymore) that said “He’s dead, Sherlock.  We found him this morning.”





	Parisian Winter

**Author's Note:**

> The notes I wrote on this story when I wrote it said to listen to this song while you read it to get the full effect! 
> 
> You’d don’t have to, 19 year old me had high hopes that fan fiction would be packaged with soundscapes. 
> 
> Aria Da Capo by Bach  
> https://youtu.be/7hkw4rw3ong

Sherlock sat outside of an empty café in Paris, cursing under his breath as a man and woman passed by his table. Wafts of booze and cheap perfume encroached upon him and he couldn’t help but spit at the ground. This man was obviously an adulterer, and from the looks of things the woman had no idea. Sherlock couldn’t help but picture John, his John, sitting at home waiting for him to come back from his hiatus. His mind wandered and eventually found its place, as it often did, imagining his homecoming. John would probably hit him, but he deserved it. Mrs. Hudson would probably cry and curse at him, which he deserved as well. Lestrade probably wouldn’t care too much, he’d just be happy to have him back, which he didn’t deserve at all.

Sherlock pictured John’s face, and a smile slowly bloomed across his lips as his phone beeped in the pocket of his long overcoat. He pulled it out, “Message From: Molly Hooper” his phone beeped again “Message From: Molly Hooper” and once more, “Message From: Molly Hooper.” An expectant Sherlock found the first message, “Sherlock, I’m going to tell you something but before I do I need to know that you will still come back” the second message, “Sherlock… Just call me” and the third message, “Sherlock, call me now.”Par

Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat over his ears and rubbed his hands together. “Winter in Paris, how incredibly lonesome” he thought, as in the distance Clair De Lune played on a violin with an un-rosined bow, and a piano that was just slightly out of tune. He dialed the familiar number and awaited Molly’s frantic voice.

“Sherlock?” She asked, her voice in a surprising monotone.

“Yes?” He asked impatiently, numb fingers going through the motions of the piece the street violinist tried so hard to play.

“Sherlock, John’s dead.” Molly said bluntly. Sherlock cocked his head slightly, “I’m not sure I understand,” he said quietly.

“Mrs. Hudson found him dead in the flat” Molly’s voice cracked slightly, and Sherlock could picture the tears sliding down her cheeks, “He shot himself, Sherlock, And he left a note” she said, weeping openly now. The street violinist played on, but Sherlock couldn’t help but be shrouded in a new silence. Sherlock stood up, unsure of what to say, or if this was truly happening.

“Molly, what did the note say?” He asked in a whisper. Molly didn’t answer, or rather she couldn’t through the painful sobs that passed her lips. “Molly Hooper, you tell me what that note said right this instant.” Sherlock said, flying into an uncontrollable rage. Molly gathered herself for a brief moment.

“It said, ‘you didn’t come back, so I’m coming to you’” Molly choked out.  
Sherlock slowly lowered the phone from his ear, looking down the quiet street at the violinist, now accompanied by a pianist, who attempted Bach’s Aria Da Capo.

He could hear Molly’s voice from his phone, muffled and calling out his name. He imagined John sitting in his chair, sounding an awful lot like Molly did right now, before pulling the trigger. The music swelled slowly and he stood up, shut off his phone and walked toward the musicians. He threw a euro into the open violin case and walked past, further from Parisian nightlife and into the cold. Snow started to fall around him, slowly at first and then in a quick flurry. He couldn’t see a foot in front of him anymore, but it didn’t matter, his eyes were swollen shut with tears anyways. He broke down and fell to his knees, and let out a loud sob as he entwined his fingers in his hair and pulled, hoping that physical pain could snap him out of this. He felt like somebody was ripping out his intestines with rusty claws, and his head ached from fighting the pain. He begged of the gods, screaming in a choked, strained voice, “Why? Why?” And then became still and silent as his sobbing took over.

He could hear footsteps and shouting in French, and then something even more peculiar, it was a voice that he knew all too well, but a voice that he wished he could forget, “Come on now, get up” the man helped him to his feet, brushed the tears from his face and tousled the snow from his hair, “stop crying, whatever it is, I’m sure you’re okay” the voice said, and Sherlock snapped out of his despair for a moment. This was Jim Moriarty, this was the man that caused all of this. This was the man who killed John. He hit him as hard as he could and quickly fell back, weak from the pain of crying. It started in again and warm tears slid down his face, “You are like a toddler, punishing others for having things that you want. How is it my fault that I had John, how is it my fault that nobody loved you?” He screamed as two Frenchmen lifted him and put him into a car. “It’s not my fault, Moriarty, it’s not my fault!” he screamed even louder and rolled into a small ball as the police whisked him away. He looked out through the window to see the man he hit was not Moriarty at all. He thought to himself, through the fuzz of pain he was in, “Moriarty is dead, and John is too.”


End file.
